


One Holmes is not enough

by Roadstergal



Category: James Bond (Movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-12
Updated: 2011-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:30:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadstergal/pseuds/Roadstergal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>M has a job for James, as usual.  Sherlock knows more than he should - as usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Kahvi for coming up with the idea that lies at the heart of this story!

_"I thought 'M' was just a randomly assigned letter, I didn't know it stood for..."_

 _"Utter one more syllable, and I'll have you killed."_

-Casino Royale

 

 _And you know how it always upset Mummy._

-A Study In Pink

 

 _If I want sarcasm, Mr Tanner, I'll talk to my children._

-Goldeneye

 

* * *

The impeccably dressed man did not speak a word. He didn't have to. Every part of his body communicated volumes, from the angle of his dark eyebrow to the position of his hands on the old-fashioned bowler he held before him. At least, it communicated volumes if one knew what to look for - and the iron-haired woman sitting behind the rich mahogany desk knew exactly what to look for.

 _Why have you called me in? I'm busy,_ the touch of a finger to the gold watch-chain said, while the slight lift of the eyebrow added as an afterthought, _doing_ your _work_.

The tilt forward of two grey eyebrows, with the mouth quirking downwards at that angle, replied _You haven't been taking care of your brother_.

"He's a grown man," Mycroft said irritably, and the rub of an index finger on his bowler added, _he was always your favorite_.

"Don't be silly," M replied, leaning back in her chair, "I simply can't trust him to take care of himself." _Family must look after family,_ the testy drumming of one finger aginst the desk said.

"I set him up with a doctor" _and now he wants to shag the man_ , Mycroft added wordlessly. "He'll take care of..."

M interrupted with the barest of eyeflicks upwards. Mycroft trying to take credit for _that_ bit of good fortune - for shame.

"I vetted him," Mycroft protested.

"There's more afoot now," M replied, standing. "That idiot D-I asked Sherlock to look into the Huntington murder." _After I had his superior make it very clear to him indeed that it was to be left alone._

"Who do you..." Mycroft read the answer immediately. "Double-oh-seven?" The twitch of his lips in the direction of a sneer asked if the department had enough condoms in stock to deal with _that_ man on the loose in London.

"This should be resolved quickly. Just make sure the regular police stay out of it."

"Yes, Mummy," Mycroft sighed, resignedly. M narrowed her eyes, but he could not call his own mother "M," now, could he?

* * *

"Your mission, Bond, is seduction." M could not resist an internal smirk at the smile that spread across the man's ridiculously chiseled face as he sat in a chair in front of her, his legs spread obscenely.

"Really, M - I'm surprised it took you so long to exploit my _talents_ in that area."

"We never had such a suitable target before." M let a bit of the smirk emerge as she slid a manila envelope across the table. "You were briefed on the way here?" Of course he had been - the clerk she had sent to brief him in the back of the limousine had been very attractive, to keep Bond's interest, and a lesbian, to keep him from seducing her away from her work. At least, to slow him down a bit. Something about that man made even gay women and straight men stop and take notice. It was all youthful foolishness, really, but she appreciated such exploitable foolishness.

"London-based extremist splinter group trying to buy cast-off nuclear arms from ex-Soviet states. Their contact was killed in a payment dispute, and we are trying to locate and shut down the group before the trail goes cold." Bond rattled off the summary with affected boredom.

"At least you paid a little attention." M nodded. "We have an _in_." She tapped the envelope, and Bond opened it and began to read. She rather enjoyed the variation in looks that passed over his face as his eyes traveled down the page - from startlement to annoyance to bemusement, finally settling on resignation.

"He was born under the name Alexander Ross; he has adopted the name Abdualla Farruk M'utala in the group. He's as gay as a box of posies, and that _particular_ sect would rip his testicles off with a pair of channel-lock pliers if it came out. You are to seduce him, and use that as blackmail fodder to infiltrate the group."

Bond looked back and forth between her and the picture in the folder. A man with messy black hair and intense-looking eyes peered out of a candid snapshot at Bond, the pictured man's cheeks shrunken with the skinniness of a too-energetic youth.

"I know you like a challenge, Bond." M could not keep her eyes from glittering. "And you know, I think you might enjoy this one." She leaned back in her chair, flitting her hand dismissively. "Go on. I expect a status update in two days."

She had never seen Bond at a loss for words before, and she discovered she rather enjoyed it. She wondered if Mycroft might be able to catch some of these antics on video. It would improve the blackmail value - and an old woman was entitled to a thrill here and there, wasn't she?


	2. The Middle

John sighed and took another sip of his pint. "Let's go out for a bit and relax" meant something different for Sherlock than it did for John. To Sherlock, it meant "Let's go find out how shit people are." Sherlock sat back in the booth, his eyes heavily lidded - half asleep, a casual observer might think, but he was watching the spread of humanity keenly, commenting on this one's missing wedding ring or that one's drinking problem or how that one's teeth were eroded by her eating disorder. It was a marvelous feat of observation and deduction, but it rather ruined John's people-watching - especially as Sherlock seemed particularly keen on tearing down the facade of any pretty girls that passed by.

"That one, though..." The lids on Sherlock's eyes lifted a fraction, and John looked over at this line of sight. "Don't stare," Sherlock admonished, and so John turned his eyes to the nearest pair of breasts, processing what he had seen. A man with short, sandy-blonde hair, a bit overdressed in a suit that fell gently over his body like it was made of very expensive cloth indeed. His face was ridiculously sharp; you could slice your fingers on the jaw and cheekbones.

"What did you see?" Sherlock asked, and John briefly sketched out that description.

Sherlock sighed. "As usual, you took in the unimportant and missed the critical points."

John rolled his eyes and leaned back in the booth. "Fine, what did _you_ see?"

"He's out of place," Sherlock replied. "He is drinking very slowly, just for show. He is sitting to take up space - look how his arms and legs are spread; he wants to be noticed. Before he looked our way, he was scanning the faces of all of the patrons, as if looking for somebody specific. Once he saw me, he ceased scanning - but he has barely looked back; he doesn't want to make it obvious that he is looking for _me_. That's not unusual; I've had quite a few of the criminal class take an interest in me, either to eliminate me or for sex."

"Sex?" John spluttered.

"Yes." Sherlock cocked his head. "I'll tell you all about it sometime - but don't you have a laptop? I'm sure a search engine can provide..."

"I know what sex is!" John replied, a little too loudly. He gave a wan smile to a girl who had been walking by, and who adjusted her trajectory to take her farther away from their booth. "I was just surprised that a... criminal element who knows your occupation..."

"You might be surprised at how the mind of the criminal element works. Ask Lestrade how many offers of blow jobs he gets on a collar, percentage-wise. He'll exaggerate by 10%." Sherlock flicked his eyes towards the subject of their interest. "That one, however, has given _you_ two short, slightly puzzled looks. Anyone who has looked into me well enough to recognize me on sight should surely know that you are frequently in my company. He is therefore _not_ looking for me, but for someone who looks like me. I would say it's a sexual preference, but his air has too much business about it. He is looking for a very specific person."

"Very nice," John replied, leaning over the table. "How do we tell if you're right?" Sherlock almost invariably was, but as much as John knew intellectually that Sherlock's methodology was rigorous, he could never shake the feeling that this was some parlor trick that would fall apart at the next challenge.

"We need to take you out of the equation. Finish your pint and get a refill. Take your time getting it - flirt with someone. Give me an exasperated look, like someone who is failing to pull. Yes! That will do nicely. Now go. Don't look over at him."

John walked up to the bar, feeling a bit like a dog who had just been shooed out of the door with a newspaper. Out of the corner of his vision, he could see a beige figure move; the man was, indeed, getting up from his perch and walking over to the booth John had just vacated.

Fortunately, there was a girl very worth flirting with who was waiting for her own refill at the bar. Unfortunately, she did not seem to have the same opinion as John, and walked off once the drink was in her hand.

John leaned on the bar, taking a long, grateful draught of bitter and glancing over at Sherlock's booth. The unknown man stood next to it, one arm leaned up against the back of the bench; he seemed _made_ of suave, catlike elegance. John felt an odd dislike of the man, his perfect hair, his fitted suit, the gold watch on his left wrist...

After a few minutes, John got tired of the charade and walked back over. "...perhaps somewhere more private..." he caught, the man's voice deep and smooth, his accent perfectly posh. Much like Sherlock's.

"Excuse me," John said, bumping into the man unnecessarily as he slid into the booth.

"Oh, sorry, am I interrupting something?" the man asked, darkly, turning a pair of shockingly bright blue eyes on John.

"My friend and I were just going," Sherlock replied, changing immediately from his slumped, eyes-half-closed posture to upright alertness. "See you later, perhaps."

"I would enjoy that," the man purred, looking once more at John - as if John were a fly who had just landed on a beautiful woman's ass - before walking back to his stool with firm, measured strides.

"What was that about?" John asked.

"Finish your pint," Sherlock replied, his eyes glittering. "I want to find out."

* * *

James sat back, resting one arm casually on the bar as the two men left. Alexander was much as he expected from the photograph - although perhaps a bit more cooly intelligent than he expected such a young fanatic to be. James was not surprised to find the man frequented a local pub; it was to be expected, it would help him 'pass,' and he had not, James noticed, let a drop of alcohol pass his lips. His friend, however - well, there were definitely quotation marks hovering nervously around 'friend,' and all in all, it seemed a rather risky association for a man who was determined not to let anyone know he was...

James's phone buzzed with an incoming email. He pulled it out and read the missive from M - terse, disapproving, as she typically was. _James - don't you even_ read _the descriptions?_ The single first page of his target's description - photograph and basic physical characteristics - was attached to the email. James skimmed over it one more time...

 _Height - 5'6"._ The man he had just been talking to was six feet if he was an inch (and he was, most definitely). Bloody hell, he would have to start all over again.

* * *

M closed the smug, almost giggling email from Mycroft. For the love of all that is English, she thought irritably, how could Bond have cocked that one up? Yes, Alexander looked a _little_ like her son, but still...

There was no getting around it, now. Sherlock would most definitely involve himself in this case. If she or Mycroft tried to warn him away, he would become three times as involved. Best to leave well enough alone. Bond would take the majority of the heat, and Sherlock had that veteran fellow to take care of him.

M had to smile at herself, the image jumping into her brain of her as a matron gossiping effusively about the match her offspring had made. "Oh, and did I tell you he's a _doctor_..."

She put those reminiscings aside. There were rebels in Libya to court, and the American Tea Party stooges, and the whole Somali situation...


	3. The End

Sherlock paused, balanced between two rafters, watching the now-black-clad man settle into place. He had the man's name - James - and he defintely had a tangential connection to the garroted man Lestrade had found bloated and floating in the Thames, but the profession and connection still eluded him. An agent of a government was Sherlock's best informed guess, and he gave that about a 78% chance of being accurate. 65%, Sherlock decided, for British agent. He wondered idly if James worked for mummy - Sherlock was sure he would have _not_ heard from her or from Mycroft if this was the case, so their silence was not telling either way. He actively avoided their work for the most part, anyway. He never particularly enjoyed working with Mycroft, and the feeling was mutual.

The deftness with which James had gotten to his current perch was a balance in favor of 'agent,' in Sherlock's mind, and also indicated a fairly exhaustive and regular training regimen. James's grace was - 'catlike' was not the word, and Sherlock hated to see the term applied as broadly as it generally was. _John_ had catlike grace - about 90% of the time, he would be as surefooted and clamber-worthy as you like, but every so often, would make that one misstep that landed him flat on his face. At least John did not have the cattish arrogance to continue on with a look on his face like he had _intended_ to do that.

No, James had a more snake-like movement - silent, smooth, slithering, slipping from place to place with startling speed, losing himself in any available patch of shadow. Sherlock had difficulty keeping him in sight, which was an oddity unto itself.

Observation had given Sherlock all he could use, and so he quickly skittered over to where the man sat. A gun immediately centered itself between his eyes, and he brushed it away, irritably. "Stop it," he murmured, "we're on the same side."

"Are we?" the man asked, his voice equally low.

"You work for M, don't you," Sherlock replied. It was a reasonable assumption - and the look on the man' face indicated this had indeed been the correct assumption. Sherlock continued, "I - don't exactly work for her, but we're connected."

The gun was lowered, but not put away. "It's not often that I let someone sneak up on me," James replied. His face was calm, his voice was level, but Sherlock could tell from the slight flicker of an eyelid, the movement of the pinkie on the side of the gun, that he had rattled the man. That was good. Sherlock liked people rattled.

"Don't worry, I'm better at it than most," Sherlock replied, settling down casually next to the man. He looked down at the scene on the warehouse floor; a cargo van, two men standing next to it, six more spread in a semicircle some distance back. One of them, he noted, bore a passing resemblance to himself. "Was that the man you were looking for, in the pub?"

"Yes. Sorry about that, you do look a bit alike."

The tone of voice, the barest flick of a tongue on his lips, and Sherlock's suspicions were confirmed. Not that he needed much confirmation; the facts all fit one scenario too beautifully for it to be anything else. "You had sex with him in order to learn about _this_ ," Sherlock nodded at the tense meeting, "gathering."

"Yes," James replied, tersely. Sherlock hid a smile. It was quite obvious to anyone who had the most modest powers of observation that James had been very certain that he was straight, and was still coming to terms with how much he had enjoyed the experience. He was bisexual, most certainly. "But how did you know to come here?"

"I followed you," Sherlock replied, calmly. "The presence of a very tense-looking group of men outside, and a cargo van being driven that recklessly, indicated a transfer of some highly illegal property. Small arms would not require this elaborate meet-up, and judging by how low that van is in the back, there is something quite heavy in it. Judging by the country of origin the appearance of the van drivers suggests, I would think the contents would be more likely to be radioactive, the weight due to the lead containment, than, say, bricks for back-street brawls." He quirked a smile at James, who was trying not to look impressed.

"Not bad," James replied. Sherlock noted that the gun was still pointing at his side. Sensibly cautious, that one. "So why are you here?"

"To assist, if it is needed, and observe, if it is not."

"Where is your... friend?"

Sherlock gave the man a little more credit. He had noted John's bulldog-like devotion at the pub, and had surmised correctly that John would not be far behind if Sherlock were involved in something dangerous. "Behind the boxes, in the corner. I told him to wait for my signal. He sometimes... takes imprudent action."

James nodded. "We have to catch the weapons smugglers. We will take the locals - agents are set to collect them when they scatter. The van drivers - we need them alive."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as one of the drivers, having reached some tentative agreement with the wary six, opened the back doors of the van. "The optimal time, I would assume, is while they are engaged in unloading."

"Of course."

The six locals warily approached the back of the van. A large box sat in the back, dull grey and webbed with rope. A discussion quickly sprang up around the difficulty in getting this thing out of the back of the van. After some heated back-and-forth, a plank of wood was set on the rear bumper of the van, and four of the men clambered into the van and began to tug on the ropes.

"That won't hold," James said, putting his gun in its holster and slithering rapidly over to an adjoining rafter, one that passed directly over the top of the van.

Sherlock had seen the same, of course, and he quietly climbed down the ladder in the corner as events progressed in the only way they could. The heavy box started to move, and the plank creaked. As the men jumped out of the van and pulled it farther, the edge came to rest on the plank, slid downwards - and the plank cracked. The box fell to the ground with a noise like a cannon blast, and the men scattered, yelling in three different languages.

James jumped from the rafter to the top of the van, running to the front to cut off access to the left side of the cab. At the same time, Sherlock was pleased to see, John was very sensibly running to cut off access at the driver's side. The six locals did indeed scatter, and Sherlock, trusting to what James had said, let them go.

James seemed to be doing perfectly well in hand-to-hand combat with the smaller of the two weapons dealers, so Sherlock left him to it, running around the side of the van to where John battled the other dealer, a man the size of a small tree with a neck that had somehow been lost at puberty. Uzbekistan, Sherlock noted; the men likely feigned allegiance with the Chechan rebels to get their hands on this shipment alone. Amateurs. Hardly the organized dealers James had taken them to be.

This all passed through Sherlock's head in a fraction of a second. The man landed a few hard blows on John, sending him staggering. John had landed a few of his own - the man's eye was black, and his nose was knocked askew and leaking a substantial amount of blood. The man seemed not to notice, however, advancing as John staggered backwards.

Fortunately, the man had quite terrible hearing - likely from his penchant for mid-80s heavy metal, Sherlock noted - and did not hear as Sherlock advanced behind him and kicked him between the legs, hard. The man folded, and Sherlock knocked the wind out of him with another well-placed kick.

James came running around the other side of the van as John regained his balance. All three of them glanced around, then James straightened, flashing a brilliant smile at the two of them. "Lovely job - even if I didn't ask you to come."

* * *

M watched as the last of the gang members was loaded into the back of an unmarked black wagon. It was too bad, really, that the weapons runners had turned out to be such small-time operators. Still, the last-minute change of plans after Huntington's murder had not been to anybody's taste - not hers, not the Sunlit Brotherhood's, certainly not James's.

Still, this was one fewer un-accounted-for nuclear warhead, and that was worth a few hours' work. Plenty of opportunity to set another trap for the bigger prey. In the meantime...

"Hello, Sherlock," she said, walking over to where he stood, uncomfortably, his coat fluttering in the cold wind. Mycroft was right, sadly - he really _was_ her favorite. Emotions were not rational, and parental emotions possibly the least rational of them all. _I've missed you_ , she didn't say, knowing he could tell.

"Hello, mummy," he muttered, looking down. _I do all right on my own, you know,_ his slight foot movement protested.

 _Of course you do_ , the light touch of her fingers on his sleeve replied. "I'm just pleased everything seems to be going well for you." _Off of the drugs, and you met such a nice boy..._

"He's straight, mummy," Sherlock muttered, looking off to the side. His face was slightly less frighteningly lean than it had been the last time she had seen him in person, when he had returned from America. No drugs, a little more frequent meals - M approved of this change. _Stop worrying about me_ , a flick of his eyelid said.

"You know quite well it's more complicated than that; he'll come around." The use of so many words was almost chastisement in itself. _Patience_ , it said.

"If you say so." _I want to shag him_ , in the twist of a lip.

"Patience," M repeated, out loud. She put her hand gently on his arm. "Now - are you coming for Christmas dinner this year?"


End file.
